


Holly's

by lunchables



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchables/pseuds/lunchables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Quinn? Noah's called out of his shift this morning. Would you mind training the new food runner? She should be here any minute. Her name is Rachel. I think you guys will really like her." Faberry Restaurant AU (Side Quinntana, starting with Rachel 17, Quinn 19, Santana 24)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Her father told her “You’re funny,” when Quinn confessed that she applied for a job.

He tossed back his head and really roared with laughter, the ice of his scotch rattling in his glass like Quinn’s bones vibrated in her flesh. When he asked where, and she mumbled “Holly’s,” he only doubled over chuckling before scrambling to the next room for his wife.

“Judy! Christ, get a load of this. Quinnie thinks…”

Quinn was left at the dining room table with knitted knuckles. She had spent so much time meticulously planning, had memorized the specific wording she’d use to present this stage in her life. And there her father was, laughing.

Russell clambered back in, his wife gliding on his heel. Judy, as always, was all pristine jewels and blonde perfection. Wiping her hands with a white towel, she was smirking. Russell was grinning like a wolf over a lamb. Quinn’s cheeks were inflamed under their prudent judgements. She remembered fidgeting under their stares, waiting.

“A job, Quinnie?” Judy asked eventually, her head tilted. The patronizing tone wasn’t lost on anyone.

Quinn could barely breathe at the time. “Yes ma’am.”

“At a bar.”

“It’s a restaurant, really.”

“With a bar.”

Quinn only nodded.

Judy’s smirk was bloodthirsty. Quinn swallowed.

Russell was watching Judy expectantly, waiting for her to pluck up Quinn’s cell and cancel this entire arrangement altogether (their daughter hadn’t been called back yet, but who wouldn’t hire their little angel? It was barely a question that she was a shoo-in for whatever position she applied for). This whole ordeal would obviously only wound their image if their sixteen year old barbie resorted to the sloppy working class. People would talk; was the business faltering? Were too many clients backing out last minute? Were they asking their daughter for financial contributions around the house? Russell would wait a long time however, Quinn realized. Judy’s lips were pursed, poised. It only meant one thing, but Quinn wasn’t brash enough yet to get ahead of herself.

The quiet drowned them all. Scotch had Russell in a chokehold, Quinn’s ears were ringing from the lack of sound, but Judy shaped the silence with her canine teeth.

“Alright, sweetie,” she finally clipped. Quinn barely flinched, but her stomach lept. At Russell’s incredulous looks, she added, “At least now, come your birthday, you can buy your own car. Saves us quite a bit. Right, dear?”

It was the closest to relinquishment she was going to get. Quinn didn’t need to be told twice.

When Will called the next day, seeking an interview, she didn’t share the good news. They already knew, and Judy never stopped smiling like her teeth were bleeding.


	2. She Way Out

That was three years ago. She was nineteen now, and had been employed by Holly’s ever since.

For the first year and a half, Quinn worked as a hostess with an absolutely ecstatic smile. The servers and bartenders absolutely _adored_ her. It was horrifically rare for high school students to not just be seeking a perfect ratio of maximum money and minimum work effort -- Quinn evidently drove herself to make the workplace run as smoothly as possible, from juggling drink trays to cleaning tables and delivering food, all for the the waiters that couldn’t keep up with the flow (but Quinn could). She kept the condiments and refreshments stocked, and never needed prompting before refilling the complimentary bread station. She accomplished all this while keeping a keen eye on the hostess stand before a manager could even think of scolding her for being away from the door. A 50-cent raise found its way to her paycheck after only six months, and then again after she rounded her anniversary with the business. Eventually she was promoted to a food runner, responsible strictly for getting food to the table. The tips that the wait-staff handed out nearly doubled along with another raise in her hourly.

It wasn’t anything to debate: Quinn Fabray was the best. It certainly didn’t hurt the Fabray Firm that Quinn was gaining a reputation for being such a hard worker – if anything, it made her guardians appear ostensibly like they had nailed the ideal balance of parenthood. At home, Judy was always found smiling fondly at the papers. Holly Holiday, the owner of the restaurant, certainly appreciated the bit of publicity she achieved (really just her fifteen minutes of fame) and demanded that the young girl was fawned over. Quinn would cut her finger on a knife and the managers (Will, Finn, and Brittany) came _running._ Quinn could hardly complain.

The other bussers and hosts couldn’t pin her with anything. Though she showed them up in any overlapping shifts, making nearly twice as much as they, it was hard to hate her. She was modest about her glaringly evident superiority. And the boys drooled as she bent over to wipe a table over, like she was a taste of champagne amidst the cheap boxes of wine. Girls could be caught staring also, but whether they wanted to be Quinn or simply get a taste as well was a different matter altogether.

Despite being in the middle of her senior year, it was no question that as soon as Quinn reached 18 she be promoted to a server, now being of legal age for serving alcohol. Within the first month she was tackling the larger tables and sections that pulsated and vibrated with how quickly customers poured in and out. Quinn won contests for making the most sales that earned her tickets to baseball and basketball games; she earned certificates to expensive restaurants; she was given gift cards; she was recognized as Employee of the Month three times in one year, and, most importantly, she was swimming in stray cash, making bank off tables with her pretty face and inexplicably charming wit. Russell once worried his little Quinnie was a stripper with all the crumpled bills amongst her belongings.

Quinn was just _likable._ There was barely a flaw anyone could find, aside from her isolation. While she could make you laugh with a wiggle of her brow and a silly face, or treat you like the center of the universe with her intense focus, she was distant. While she accepted most invitations to karaoke nights or small parties, personal matters were irrelevant with Quinn Fabray; she was just a funny, pretty girl. No one particularly tried anyway -- it wasn’t like she was running to bathrooms sobbing that her father didn’t truly love her or that she was fairly certain her mother was a borderline psychopath. It was easy to let Quinn be distant. Nobody knew better.

Sometimes when it was busy, and the new hostesses sat Quinn with three different parties at once, all of whining, slobbery kids, her temper short-circuited. There would be a few fleeting seconds of red-hot rage melting Quinn’s eyeballs as she stormed up to the entrance, but it always settled uncomfortably in her stomach before she could say anything truly regrettable. Not that she needed to – her blind fury was terrifying enough to get the message across. But if anything, it was more amusing (when not on the receiving end) for other servers to watch, rather than pin her down for it.

When she came out as gay for a redhead in her calculus class, her parents cut off her college fund and kicked her out after graduation. Suddenly Columbia was years away, instead of just a few months. Jen, the irish daydream, broke up with her when Quinn suddenly didn’t have a dime to her name. At least that was all Quinn could assume, since none of her excuses particularly made sense – (“ _Quinn… it’s not me, it’s you… shit, no, I meant-_ ”) Lima Community College took her very late application, frankly astonished see a Fabray in the stacks. Quinn could only guess who Judy must’ve bribed (or blackmailed) to withhold this educational detour out of public eye. With the older woman, it could be anywhere from lingerie to a poisoned apple. But Quinn didn’t call her up, or stop by. She avoided supermarkets Judy frequented, and the Fabrays crossed Holly’s off their dining experiences. It was for the best, really.

She moved in with Santana Lopez (one of the bartenders five years older than she) after that. Though Quinn found her standoffish, Quinn could always count on Santana to stay on her sharp game and keep the margaritas coming. It was certainly noticed that Santana always seemed to clear Quinn’s drink tickets before any other servers’, even on a crisp Saturday night. It was hard to dislike someone who mutually appreciated your hard work. It was also hard to hate someone that could make you feel so good with her hands down your pants.

At first, their relationship really was strictly platonic, what with living together and all. It always would be in the mental sense, at least. But sometimes when they were drunk and horny, it seemed obvious to latch a bathroom stall shut and inhale one another with hungry tongues and rough hands. The next morning, it wouldn’t matter.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Santana asked once over the summer.

Quinn had barely lifted her head at the address. “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. Unless you’re starting to get a little crush. Then that’s just adorable.”

“In your dreams, Fabray.”

But she had left it at that, not one to complain Quinn wasn’t emotionally attached. Though Quinn tended to sometimes throw back too many tequila shots on week nights, chasing it with cheap scotch (even though Santana remembered once a hiccuping, drunk Quinn screeching that she fucking hated scotch before ripping off Santana’s shirt), and Quinn also initiated an overwhelming amount of sex, Santana wasn’t going to push it. For one thing, this whole silent but burning lust Quinn harbored was sexy as hell when dished out. Then there was the fact Santana couldn’t really imagine being kicked out by her parents, whether she had been close or not, and she wasn’t going to pretend like she actually understood it. Nor had a girl ever thrown herself at Santana solely because she had money – which she didn’t, or hadn’t ever – before ditching at the first sign of an oil spill.

It was the week before Quinn’s nineteenth birthday when she walked into the manager’s office for her tip-out, and the daily newspaper was on the desk. First page of the business section: **Fabray Firm Flies.** Her father got an offer from a branch in Chicago to merge finances and combine public prominence. Staring at the image of the happy couple, Quinn could only imagine the dagger Judy had behind Russell’s back.

She threw it away before sitting down. A bit later, as she was leaving, Will was looking around under folders and papers, checking around the floor. “Has anyone seen today’s paper? Emma said she posted a bit in there about…”

Quinn went home.

The following week, when her birthday came, she found a Hallmark card in the PO box, a customized stamp used to sign her parents’ names. There was no return address. She threw it away. Santana found it one morning when she was taking out the trash, but she didn’t bring it up. Quinn didn’t either. The dump truck took it away, and it was forgotten.

Now, nineteen years  and eight months old, Quinn was just another speck in Lima, another server, just another girl paying through part-time classes and working nearly 40 hour weeks, and she probably drank more than she should. She needed at least her associate’s before proving to Columbia that she deserved a full-ride. Her life wouldn’t truly start until twenty-three, killing it in the city and forging her whimsical dreams into a reality, but it _would_ happen. She was sure of it.

(It had to.)

But right now, today, Quinn was disintegrating behind puffy eyes with a piercing migraine and a wavering nausea. Slumped against a bar table, she watched Will, the opening manager that Sunday morning, rant on about hospitality and focus. Behind him, Santana was cutting limes at the bar. Whenever he faced away, she mocked his expression, sticking her tongue out, and Quinn smirked.

As Will gave off the soup and veggie of the day, Quinn zoned out.

Last night, very, very trashed, she had stumbled into the apartment, calling out for her roommate at nine. San had been in the shower, and when the door slammed shut to introduce Quinn’s loud drawls, it wasn’t long before Quinn was crashing into the shower with grappling hands and pressing Santana against the hot, wet walls of the bath (Quinn forgot to take off her own clothes, but Santana wasn’t complaining).

Quinn didn’t remember tossing her keys into the fish tank, but Santana was scooping them out that Sunday morning and handing them to a half-asleep Quinn before she left the blonde alone to nurse a hangover.

Now, three hours later, she was still shaking with the nausea. However, Quinn smiled somewhat fondly at the blurry images trickling in, and Santana caught the look. A wink was sent her way, but Quinn rolled her eyes in response.

“Sound good, Quinn?”

Quinn blinked her eyes onto Will. “Hm?”

“Training,” he said slowly. “Noah called out of his shift, would you mind training the new food runner?”

Quinn only blinked in response.

“We’ll give you a gift card?”

She stared back at him, the gears in her skull rusty as they cranked.

Will was catching on to the stench of Quinn’s hangover, and Santana was chuckling behind the bar. The other servers were smiling at their favorite blonde, but Quinn only wanted to sleep behind the counter and barf her insides out.

“Quinn?” he asked again, balancing between annoyance and concern.

“Sure, whatever,” she dismissed with a wave.

Honestly, she hated training. But at least if she was also training a new kid, she would get put in a back section, get out of work early, and could sooner greet her lumpy mattress.

“Great!” He clapped his hands. Quinn cringed at the noise. “She should be here any minute. Her name is Rachel. I think you guys will really like her.”

Oh, if only he knew.

 

 


	3. Pour Some Sugar On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The first chapter was titled after a song by the 1975. This chapter is the song by Def Leppard)  
> Let me know what you guys think so far - Also shout out to Caroline (nerdybutt on tumblr) for being amazing in general.  
> Last thing: I’m gonna be without a computer/wifi/service for the two weeks starting NYE.

 

**Three: Pour Some Sugar On Me**

Rachel was quiet.

She introduced herself and all, with firm hands and friendly smiles, and she looked Quinn in the eye during conversation, but it was usually Quinn doing the talking. And Quinn didn’t talk that much to begin with.

“So, this is the servers’ station.” Quinn drawled, waving an arm dismissively. “Drinks, ice, condiments, takeout supplies… most anything you need that’s not food.” She looked back at the brunette, for some affirmation that she understood the _simplest_ of concepts to a restaurant. Rachel stared right back, rocking on the balls of her feet.

She said nothing. The girl nodded after a beat of silence.

Quinn, slightly put off, pressed her lips together in a stiff line. “Um, right. Well this is the bar…”

Santana looked up as they walked up. Quinn mouthed “help me.” Santana smiled and waved sarcastically. When Rachel lifted a hand to wave back, Quinn turned back around.

And yeah, Rachel kept a good distance away when Quinn dropped off food to tables, demonstrating the proper way of presenting yourself to a table, the pace at setting dishes down, and the type of follow-up questions/conversation – “ _are you folks all done with the calamari? ...Great, how was it? ...Well, that’s definitely what we like to hear. I have to admit, I order it at least once a week… Sure sure, anything else for right now? … Alright, you enjoy your meal._ ” And yeah, she wasn’t too nosey, like poking over Quinn’s shoulder awkwardly as some food runners had done (Puck). She certainly didn’t try to distract Quinn with crude jokes (Puck), and _yes_ , she gave respectful space, waiting for Quinn to come up with the right way of presenting a lesson instead of snatching a ticket from Quinn’s hands (Puck) like a cocky son of a bitch.

But she didn’t ask _questions_. She took in everything Quinn said and nodded vigorously as if she were scribbling furious mental notes on those fluttering eyelids. She seemed to remember everything, from the two pickle chips on burgers to the spoons in pastas and to lemons beside seafood. She barely needed reminding, like she had created flashcards already and memorized the lot before she stepped foot into the restaurant Sunday morning (for all Quinn knew, maybe she did. Rachel was given a printed copy of the menu). But Rachel didn’t ask for clarifications, or ask for help. The exact _problem_ Quinn had with her was that she _had_ to have a flaw, everyone did, because Quinn was a personal representative of such a claim.

She let Rachel deliver an appetizer a couple hours into lunch, solo, – Quinn still hovered not-so-subtly – and Rachel flawlessly handed it off. She even offered to grab some small plates to make it easier to share between the couple, a task Quinn hadn’t yet told Rachel she was supposed to get in the habit of doing..

Needless to say, Quinn irritably stalked off to the kitchen, Rachel in tow. The brunette didn’t get to run anything else, Quinn dominating every ticket in the window, but she didn’t ask Quinn what she had done wrong either ( _nothing, nothing at all_ ).

It all was definitely annoying, Quinn decided.

 

 

“She’s literally a robot,” Quinn deadpanned, leaning against the bar.

Santana was pouring out a frozen margarita, smiling. But she said nothing.

“She just stares – she just fucking stares at me! Like, um, can I _help_ you?”

Santana only raised an eyebrow, turning back to grab a wine bottle. Quinn stabbed her ticket, holding her tray up. “And she’s only seventeen. Like, since when do we hire food-runners that young? That hasn’t happened since–since–”

“You?”

Quinn glared at the darker girl, her lips downturned a with an ugly contempt. She ignored the remark, not bothering to correct that she had actually be sixteen, and opted instead for “She’s a child.”

“She is a child,” Santana agreed, her back to Quinn. “But she’s a child that’s only two years younger than you. So by default, you’re both children to me.”

Quinn scoffed, her tongue flitting over her bottom lip. “You certainly didn’t treat my like a child last night.”

Having hoped to invoke a blush in the older girl, Quinn’s defiant smirk faltered as Santana turned back around and smiled gently. “No, you’re right,” she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts breathed out her v-neck. Quinn’s eyes quivered with the strain to not look down. “Last night, I was calling you something else entirely.” Echoes of Santana’s sex-induced screams clouded her eardrums.

Quinn changed the subject. She was hungover, yes, but she was sober. “Who does she think she is?”

“No clue.”

“I swear, I could strangle her.”

“Your marg is melting.”

Quinn huffed, growling to herself before she stomped off to her table. As she rounded through the condiments area, Rachel emerged from the double doors to the kitchen. Upon sight, her eyes lifted visibly. But she said nothing. Quinn rolled her eyes. She felt Rachel follow her, and it only enhanced her irritation.

At the end of her shift, Will had disappeared down to the office, but Finn asked what she thought of Rachel.

“She’s annoying,” Quinn snapped. Her foot tapped hesitantly, and she softened. “She’ll be good. But she’s annoying.”

Apparently that was enough for anyone.

 

XX

 

Quinn didn’t work with Rachel again until Thursday night. And she was yelling this time.

“What the fuck do you mean you’re letting her run food by herself?” Quinn screeched into Puck’s neck. She was pretty sure he would never stop getting taller, and it only piled onto her anger.

Beside them, Rachel watched the two with wide, curious eyes.

Puck, on the other hand, was basically cowering and sputtering like a rodent.

“Sh-sh-she knows the food a-and the table numbers! I th-thought she might as well try it out, I–”

Quinn practically dug her nails into his chest as she thrust her finger at him. “Well, don’t _think_ then. She brought out their meals before their appetizers were even ready, Puckerman. They come here every goddamn week, request _my_ section, and order the exact same goddamn courses. It’s not rocket science, and now they’re annoyed – this is coming out of _your_ tips and I am going to fucking tear your-”

“Okay!” Santana called, bursting through the doors as she clapped her hands. “Wonderful performance, Q. Very dramatic. Puck, Rach, get back to the line, will you? Will’s panties are very twisted.” She wiggled her fingers as Puck scrambled off. Rachel smiled uncertainly, skipping after him. Quinn’s eyes leered after the two – or, well, just one of them – before she rounded on Santana.

“ _You-_ ”

“I saw that.” Santana was _smirking._

“Saw what?”

“ _That_.” Santana jutted her chin at the wake of the two younger workers.

Quinn’s anger was dribbling. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Santana let it go, sighing with a wave. “Just play nice, Fabray. You don’t want everyone to know you’re a bitch.”

Quinn didn’t get it. Except the bitch part – she understood that flawlessly

 

XX

 

Quinn was leaning against a counter, waiting for 75’s entrees to come through, when Rachel appeared beside her, mimicking Quinn’s bent-over position of an elbow propped on the metal surface and fingers over her mouth.

It was impossible to not view the gesture as anything but challenging.

Quinn’s eyes narrowed with a menace.

Rachel met her evenly with steady eyeballs.

They were maybe a foot away from one another, definitely nothing to get her itching with the spark of a presence between her legs. But with the steam, and all the stove-tops and fryers scorching up the kitchen, the heat was restlessly exposing her nerves. Quinn had a gentle gleam of sweat caked over her arms and neck, her cheeks a deep red from the humidity, but the tendrils leaking from her headband and short ponytail were immaculate. Rachel, on the other hand, was a hot mess with her frizzy, wet hair, shiny face, and melting eyeliner.

Rachel had supposedly wrapped up her training on Thursday, and that Friday night was her first solo shift. The managers, in a huddle, had apparently agreed she was good enough to handle the rush of a Friday. Quinn was ready to start placing bets that it was Finn’s idea to put the pretty new girl (what? Quinn wasn’t _blind_ ) by herself tonight. With Will’s enthusiastic backup, Brittany probably thought Rachel was nice and determined enough. Also, Brittany wouldn’t be managing, and likely didn’t care too much if Will and Finn had a meltdown based on their poor initiatives.

Whatever, the _point_ was there were tickets upon tickets flooding the window, the cooks were yelling for a runner to clear the space, and Rachel was just s _taring_ at her. Recovering from arduous breathing, resting sore (wet, sweaty) muscles against the metal, brown eyes easily accommodating hazel ones but Quinn’s own pupils dilating and–

Quinn cleared her throat, breaking away from the counter, breaking the uncomfortable haze. Eyes averted, she racked her brain to remember her table's food before promptly grabbing her ticket. Rachel appeared thrown off only by the amount that had accumulated (not Quinn’s heavy eyelids).

With a devilish smirk at Rachel’s oscillating stress, Quinn reached for her two dishes and stabbed the paper, already turning on her heel.

Rachel’s crumpled brow and twitching lips were just the beginning of indicators to her anxiety with all the bills Quinn had left behind, unsure where to even begin. Up until this point at Holly's, she hadn’t stopped moving and just blindly grabbed a ticket, ran it, came back and repeated. She was never scolded for doing something particularly wrong, so she was led to believe it was instead right. Right? But Rachel hadn’t been faced with so many disarranging options before. How could _this_ many people be getting their food at the same time?

“Quinn?” Rachel called, though it was more a flustered squeak.

Hand on the cool expanse of the door, Quinn wanted nothing more than to just _go_. Talk up her tables, flirt with college boys for a good tip, flirt with Santana to keep the margaritas coming, and maybe spend the night downing tequila shots the moment Brittany told her to start closing down her section.

But, inevitably, her sober conscience was rather nagging without alcohol.

“Definitely annoying,” Quinn muttered, biting her lip.

“What?”

In a series of swift, fluid movements, Quinn marched back to Rachel, balanced 75’s plates in one arm, snatched the thin stack of tickets, and rearranged them along the flat surface in a messy chronological order. “Just do them,” she directed calmly. “Ignore anything Puck has told you about his method of prioritizing – he's a dumbass. It's the same as if there were two in the window, okay? Grab the first, do it, come back, do the next. Do two tables at a time if you can, but don’t start a ticket you can’t finish. Got it?”

Rachel’s head bobbed like a buoy in a hurricane.

At least the girl could take direction, Quinn noted. A sliver of rather _specific_ demands she could ask the girl ran through her skull – “ _Get down on your knees. Don't stop looking at me. Take off my underwear and–_ “

Quinn coughed. Rachel wasn't looking at her anymore. Quinn rushed out of the kitchen.

But Rachel was still definitely a robot.

  
XX

 

“I’m going to Starbucks, would you like anything?”

Quinn lifted her nose out of her phone’s screen. Rachel was standing in front of her. It was Saturday afternoon, two weeks after their first shift together. While Quinn’s yelling had lowered in volume to sharp hisses, they were more and more frequent and less and less called for.

“No,” Quinn clipped. The hollow to her throat vibrated like the pristine blonde Quinn was molded from. It made her skin crawl. She shifted in the booth and crossed her legs. Behind Rachel, Santana was thumping her index finger into a hole created by her opposite hand. Pink crowded Quinn’s jaw line. She looked away.

“Are you sure?” Rachel tilted her head, tucking her arms into her coat pocket. “You’re a double today, aren't you?.” She leaned a bit, trying to catch Quinn’s eye. God, the way she pouted and puffed her cheeks – she looked _so_ stupid. And how the hell does she know Quinn’s schedule?

Santana was fanning herself, leaning back in her seat and forming O’s with her thick lips. Brittany, the closing manager, was watching her bemusedly.

Quinn’s cheeks burned hotter with desire than embarrassment.

“ _Yes_ , Berry. I’m sure.”

With a shrug, Rachel left and Quinn buried herself into her phone..

Quinn only knew Rachel’s last name because she’d gone rummaging through her file after flirting her way past Finn. There was nothing to see but her application, a W-22 form, and other contracts. But her application did mention Rachel relied on her fathers (Quinn momentarily paused) for transport to and from work. That had proved somewhat satisfactory, considering by the time Quinn was seventeen she had her own car — a deadbeat pile of junk, but a car nonetheless. This one-up proved a smug accomplishment and Quinn smirked.

God, she was losing her mind.

 

 

Later that night, Quinn caught Santana drinking from a Starbucks cup with Rachel’s name scribbled on the side. Quinn gaped at her, fists condensing.

“What?” Santana asked. “She offered.”

Quinn stomped back to the dining room.

 

XX

 

Rachel was bustling about behind the bar, refilling non-alcoholic beverages and putting glasses away.

Smoke was basically funneling from Quinn’s ears by the gallon.

“She’s not even allowed back there,” she spat at Santana, who was trying to juggle pouring two different wines simultaneously.

“I needed the hands,” she retorted with an edge to her tone.

“You never used to let _me_ help you out.”

“You would have gotten me fired.” Santana shook a cocktail mixer, and held a glass under the Long Trail beer tap.

“What, and the midget won’t?”

Santana glanced back at the fussing girl briefly. “She’s not that short. Just a few inches less than you.”

Quinn only glared.

Santana rolled her eyes, dropping her tequila bottle on the rack as Rachel leaned beneath the Latina to wipe down a lower shelf. “Look, I’ve established myself as a good bartender. You started around the same time I did; I was new, I couldn’t just go breaking all the rules for you, could I? No matter how cue you are.” She winked, and at this remark, Rachel glanced between the two for just a fleeting moment. Quinn scowled down at her. Rachel smiled and scurried to the other end.

“Take your shit, and quit crowding my bar. I’m busy, Pretty Lady.”

Quinn refused the baited compliment, and grumbled a “ _whatever_ ,” as she took her drinks on a tray.

 

 

“Take it off,” Quinn hissed, refraining from ripping the buttons of Santana’s collared shirt.

Santana had just been wiping down the beer taps, lazily chatting it up with some forty-looking cougar about the stigma around sex toys after a long Saturday night of pouring sloppy beers and redundant margaritas. She was looking at Terri with her breasts bulging, just picturing her solo room back at the apartment, and debated if Quinn would care – not emotionally, they both were very clear about their feelings (or lack thereof). In fact, she was just turning to go find the blonde when-

Quinn careened out of the servers’ station to a halt at the end of the bar, inches from Santana’s face. Quinn’s dilated pupils were not hesitant as the eyes dropped onto plump lips, eager and unashamedly an open book. Santana would have smirked if it wasn’t so hot.

Now, after shoving Santana into the back bathroom, Quinn buried her tongue in Santana’s lips, panting heavily with her fingers unhooking cheap buttons. Santana heard a tear, Quinn bit Santana’s lip – _hard_ – and the blonde was whimpering. She viciously tugged the shirt off Santana’s torso, breaking their interlocked teeth.

Eyebrows high, ears pounding, fingers aching, Santana could not pull her eyes from the heavy vibrations Quinn’s round chest labored by breathing, or the tight tick to her jaw. Her dark, dark green eyes and snarled lips. It was… dangerously different. Quinn had always just been desperate with her sloppy, drunk kisses. This was sober Quinn, purposefully targeting Santana’s mouth and tongue and teeth with a precision not even comparable to the the best of hookups Santana had had. Quinn re-attached herself to the brunette hungrily, inhaling her and fisting her long dark hair – painfully, but _oh so good_ – until her fingers dropped to the hem of Santana’s black jeans. Quinn’s hands were no longer needy, but firm and direct with their iron grip on Santana’s hips, rubbing herself against Santana’s thigh with quivering moans.

But it wasn’t long before Santana flipped them around, propping Quinn against the wall, clasping her mouth to the blonde’s neck. Quinn squirmed beneath her, fidgeting at the overwhelming desire and trying to reject it, but her twitches grew stronger and her frustration morphed to something else entirely before she was pushing Santana away, ready to scream in rage.

Santana didn’t get it when Quinn stormed out. Quinn didn’t get it either.

Rachel was just coming back to grab her things, having been just told she was good to go home, when a flustered Quinn with apple-red cheeks burst from the bathroom, flattening disheveled hair, cursing. Quinn stumbled upon sight of the food runner, recoiling to not knock into her.

“Hello Qui–“ Rachel glanced at Quinn’s smudged lipstick, and then down to the top buttons that had popped open to reveal not-so-innocent cleavage, before back up to the messy lips. Her roaming eyes made Quinn shift, her lust reconfiguring itself, contorting to something angrier and hotter and Quinn was looking at Rachel’s wide-set mouth too, and in her feverish binge she was seconds away from absolutely destroying Rachel’s _delicious–_

Santana slipped out of the restroom like she was being inconspicuous with her also mis-buttoned shirt. But she was what broke Quinn’s sexually frustrated frenzy.

Santana appeared innocently unphased.

Rachel couldn't help but smile.

 

 

 


	4. Sweet Talk 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Talk 101 by Cute Is What We Aim For
> 
> I had some time to kill on the plane and a 12 hour bus ride, so I typed like 5k on my phone, and now that I have a computer it was a quick edit. I'm posting this like a week before I expected it to. 
> 
> Leave a comment! I thrive off your feedback and I'll probably post more frequently if I know you guys are liking this :)
> 
> Happy New Year

**Four: Sweet Talk 101**

The first time Rachel Berry laid eyes on her, she was irrevocably _smitten_.

Just _ugh_ — that rich, glistening golden hair — her toxic laugh juicy like vegan butter melting on her tongue — those long legs that are probably Rachel’s height _alone_ in length, so taut with delicious muscle and could likely hold her entire weight against a wall — oh God, her soft voice, so present and firm but — Rachel could just _imagine_ being pressed against the bathroom door by her with fingers dangerously close to her waistline and-

Brittany looked up from her clipboard and smiled at Rachel across the room.

She melted.

 

XX

 

Quinn was making a brownie sundae.

“Mm, what’s that?” Rachel popped up beside the blonde. It was the morning after the bathroom incident.

Quinn only _hmphed_ in response, bending over deeper into the cooler. The fucking machine was four feet tall and anytime she needed something, of course it was buried under an old mudpie at the bottom. So Quinn looked like a damn idiot trying to reach the vanilla ice cream, stupid legs flailing.

Rachel tilted her head a little, looking at Quinn’s butt. It was definitely some quality booty. Very round. Rachel giggled to herself, and Quinn nearly lurched out of the cooler with her humongous scoop of ice cream, tousled hair and pink cheeks.

“What’s so funny?” she challenged heatedly.

Rachel was grinning, hands behind her back. “Nothing,” she chirped, swaying. “Your ice cream is dripping though.” 

Quinn rolled her eyes, but nonetheless dumped the scoops onto the dish, mumbling with her back to Rachel again.

As Quinn scooped hot fudge, Rachel reappeared. “You know, my dads are gay.”

Quinn nearly spilled the entire sundae, shot the most panicked glare, and scattered back to the cooler wordlessly.

It had been obvious Santana was gay, what with her one-liners and handsy habits – especially with their manager Brittany (Rachel scowled at the thought), giving over-excited hugs, or dramatic, lasting touches down the manager’s arms that sent Rachel fuming, and maybe accidentally spilling Santana’s drink. But Rachel had no idea Quinn was interested in woman. Frankly, Rachel had seen the way she flirted with Finn down in the office and assumed there was something behind closed doors _there_. Obviously, there could be, for all she knew, but Rachel was not one to make decisions of anyone else’s sexuality. 

She herself had never bothered much to think of her own preferences. She certainly had spent a fair bit of time chasing after boys with talents on stage hardly comparable to her own at school, and she had also never dated a girl. But Brittany was so… _cute_ and _alluring_ and Rachel was so _in_ to her. Also, after the incident last week with a babbling and stuttering Quinn trying to act pissed off, and the amused, tranquil bartender that simply led Quinn away before she embarrassed herself further… well it was just _juicy_. Rachel had no idea that working in a restaurant might actually be entertaining. It was like a personal _Grey’s Anatomy_ without long hours spent on Netflix, Quinn being the standoffish but ridiculously attractive Addison Montgomery, and Santana mimicking a drop-dead gorgeous Cristina Yang (just because Rachel was unfathomably raging with jealousy whenever Santana and Brittany flirted, Rachel had to reluctantly agree the bartender’s charms were impossibly amiable, and she quite liked her as a person). Rachel might compare this whole place to _The L Word_ , because what—was everyone hooking up with the same sex these days?—but she had never quite had the guts to click on the title, but not for a lack of curosity. Her Netflix account was linked with her fathers’, and sure, she doubted they’d go rummaging through her history and scold her for watching LGBT television, but still. The idea of her fathers knowing she’d be watchingtwo beautiful woman ravish each other was just _weird_. She was beginning to wonder if she should watch it, though, because bisexuality was becoming a more appealing label by the second, and especially if she had _any_ chance whatsoever with Brittany. Then again, she didn’t even know how much older the blonde was than herself (seven years? eight? _nine_?). For all she knew, this crush would prove a tragedy before it even had the _potential_ to begin.

Unrequited love sucks, Rachel decided.

Humming quietly, she let another peak at Quinn’s rear (really, it was all out of curiosity—Quinn’s soaring ego was a total turn off, and this was the first time considering the blonde as much more than a soulless enemy but actually a human with sex appeal that was fun to tease because she got flustered so easily) before she dashed off to the line of food waiting to be delivered, still well within the blonde’s sight.

When Santana came down, flipping through the pages of her notepad, Quinn was the one staring at Rachel’s ass. 

Santana faked a cough as she bent to grab a milkshake glass from behind Quinn.

Quinn’s gaze jerked up, inches from Santana, and she flushed.

Rachel turned around with a ticket in her hand and smiled at the bartender.

Santana just laughed.

 

XX

 

“They wanted the Chicken Carbonara,” Quinn deadpanned.

“I believe the ticket said Chicken Alfredo.”

“I think I know what my table ordered, Berry.”

“I’m sure you do. But the ticket said-”

“I don’t fucking care what the ticket said, Dwarf. Take this back, and go get me a carbonara.”

“You need to ring one in first.”

“I _did_ ring it in.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows dauntingly. “Prove it.”

Quinn’s jaw ground together painfully. She was probably still a little drunk, having been sipping cocktails constantly all of Friday night, still going at it with straight tequila until the early morning hours of Saturday, and then passed out for a couple hours, until Santana kicked her awake and dragged her ass into work (because she so was not driving. 

Quinn had to run to the bathroom every ten minutes to either pee or vomit.

At one point, Rachel was in the back grabbing a bus-tub when Quinn languidly made her way out of the bathroom, clutching at her stomach in discomfort.

No one had to say anything for it to feel eerily like the last time Quinn came out.

Rachel really couldn’t help herself. “No Santana?”

Quinn blamed the remnants of alcohol in her system on the fact she had no snarky retort and marched to the front of the house.

Now, Quinn was roughly punching her number into the computer screen, scanning for her table’s order, while Rachel hovered behind her patiently.

“You’re breathing is obnoxious,” Quinn hissed.

Rachel waited.

Quinn had nothing to say when _CHIX ALFREDO_ read loud and clear under the tab.

Ten minutes later, Rachel was bringing a chicken carbonara to Quinn’s table with, “I am so sorry, that was completely my fault, I grabbed the wrong thing, and then the kitchen got confused and—it was all a mess. Don’t let Quinn convince you otherwise, she just can’t help but take the blame. She seems to think it’s a noble sacrifice, rather than just some food.” The group of older woman had all laughed with Rachel, offering assurances and guarantees it was “ _quite alright, hun._ ”

Rachel hung around the group for a few minutes longer when they complimented her on her star necklace, and they traded preferences on local jewelry parlors. 

Quinn was glaring from the server’s station.

“Hey Q, get your Bloody Mary’s off my bar, they’ve been sitting there for- What the hell are you _doing_?”

Quinn stopped squeezing the existence out of the used children’s cup in her hand and blinked at Santana.

The Latina followed the prior line of sight, before rolling her eyes back at Quinn. “I’m cutting you off at midnight next time, little girl.”

“Whatever, grandma.”

“Do you always let your grandmother handcuff you to the bedpost?” Santana asked bemusedly.

Quinn barely suppressed her aggravated scream when she stalked to the kitchen.

 

XX

 

  
"She's underage."

"So are you."

"That's different."

"How?

"I live with you."

"I could invite her over."

"Do you want people to start calling you a cougar?"

"Wouldn’t be the worst thing to say."

“It’d be creepy.”

"Why dont you want her to come?"

"Because she's annoying."

"She's said all of like, two words to you."

"Exactly."

"I like her," Brittany piped up.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Yeah, obviously, you hired her."

"Wait, really? You picked the berry?" Santana asked, holding a dismissive hand over Quinn's face. Quinn would have bit Santana's flawless fingers off if she weren't so fatigued from her shift. Britt put her in the front, which meant she had to wait until the bartender's last call to close down the stations. And of course Santana was generous to the group of college girls celebrating the end of their first trimester, letting them go on and on, way past the appropriate time for a Tuesday night.

"I should have known it was you," Santana continued, all cheeky lips and dangerous eyes. "Finn would've been too busy staring at her ass to take her application."

Brittany laughed. "I know, he does that sometimes. Will doesn't let him do interviews anymore."

It was difficult to tell with Brittany, whether Santana's flirting was appreciated or completely lost behind blue eyes. As far as Quinn knew, Brittany had only ever been with men. Or, well, she was engaged for three years to some guy a decade older than her, who drove a Mercedes and smoked cigars but had perfect white teeth, before she called it off a month before the wedding because she "wasn't diggin' it." Santana was convinced the blonde left him for her. Two years later, Santana still hadn’t even gone to first base.

"Well, Berry was A+ on your part, B. The chick's a machine."

"Aw, thanks. Isn't she the cutest?"

Quinn wasn't sure what was worse; Santana nursing a soft spot for the troll, what like some Big Sister program, or Brittany actually going as far as calling her cute. Maybe they were equally nauseating.

"Whatever, if she goes, I don't go," Quinn interrupted, palms up.

At a look to each other, a slight pause, Brittany and Santana nodded.

"Okay."

"Yeah, that's fine with me."

 

Twenty minutes later Quinn had her fists stuffed into her jacket, trudging ten feet ahead of the rest of them towards the pub, her Walmart sneakers smacking against the snowy sludge of the sidewalk.

"...this is just so exciting. I've always fantasized about my first time singing karaoke. Do you think they have all the Chicago numbers?"

Exactly what was so cute about a babbling little girl, Quinn had no idea. It felt more like babysitting with the high school girl skipping around them. Brittany and Santana, though, seemed entertained enough, tossing back heads and laughing like they'd taken a shot back at Holly's. Maybe they had. Quinn would bite Santana out later for not sliding her one.

When Rachel got cut from her shift, Santana caught her in the office to invite the brunette to their weekly karaoke night at the McKinley Pub. She'd have to wait a solid hour for Santana to close the bar, Britt to close the restaurant, and Quinn to... well, Quinn ended up waiting beside Rachel at Holly's bar in her uniform at the opposite end of the college girls, drumming long fingers and ignoring any of Rachel's irking attempts at conversation.

“Don’t you have, like, homework?” Quinn snapped.

Rachel smiled. “I’m on my holiday break right now.”

Rachel boldly asked Santana at one point ”Are you gay?”. The Latina shot an amused look to the blonde, who buried herself in her elbows with scarlet cheeks and pink earlobes, before saying "yeah, really gay." Quinn wasn't sure who the question had been about anymore.

Every Tuesday night since Quinn turned 18, all the servers (or, well, the group of them that could behave civilly together in public without diva-like disputes over who folded the most napkins at work) headed over to the pub after the dinner shift. It started as a form of "happy birthday, you're one of us now, let's buy you drinks" for Quinn, but when the Tuesday karaoke machine, $2 margaritas, and deliciously late hours were uncovered, it became a routine no one could resist. The bar always carded until around midnight, giving stamps to those underage, but the underage drinking laws were pretty relaxed in Ohio when it came to small-town establishments. The worse that could happen for serving a minor might be a written-up scolding by a manager that got lost in dusty filing somewhere.

Reaching the pub, Quinn (almost) regretted holding the door open for them as they filed in — hospitality rapidly became a habit in the restaurant business — because as Rachel rounded the back of the trio, bouncing, her bright eyes seemed to excel even more with an innocent excitement at Quinn's gesture, and she squeaked a gushing "Thank you!" along with a squeeze to Quinn's shoulder that was so out of place and lingered for so long, Quinn stood there for another few seconds in a daze.

"Shut the door, Q, it's fucking cold."

Rachel was right — the holidays were nightmarishly close, and so most of the Holly's-employed college students were back from school and in town to be with their families. Not many had had luck in picking up shifts, and so tonight would be the first time in seeing them since the summer (a few returned for Thanksgiving, but the gap was so short it was senseless to work when you could be with family). It was both a relief and a burden to have all the servers relatively her age back home — while it was great to see and work with people that weren’t dinosaurs clambering about the restaurant, as well as someone else to drink with other than Santana, it was a nauseating reminder that they were living in dorms on campuses of mind-boggling schools, while Quinn was stuck fumbling for enough cash to pay rent and two classes a week.

Mercedes was on the stage already alongside Kurt. They were rapping a scrappy beat about asshole managers that they had written together (Brittany put them in bad sections that night, considering it was their first shifts back in at least a month, though the manager seemed unphased and was nodding her head along to the beat, grinning).

Quinn took a seat at the end of their banquet-like table, beside Santana.

"What’s it gonna be tonight?" she asked softly to the blonde, reflexively dropping a hand on Quinn's inner thigh. Her thumb drew lazy circles over the material of her pants.

Drunk or sober, Quinn wouldn't normally care how handsy Santana was in public. They were friends. And Santana liked to touch all her friends a little too close to home. If Quinn was affectionate back, sometimes San bought her the first round of drinks. It was nothing to overthink, really.

But she met Rachel's eye, and the girl had that fucking smirk again.

Quinn pushed Santana's hand off and whispered in her ear.

Santana ordered an expensive wine for herself to tip off the night, and a margarita on the rocks for Quinn — "easy on the mix, more tequila, thanks sweetie," — and casually slid the respective drink towards the blonde when it was set on the table.

"You're buying her drinks?" Rachel blurted, having just come down from browsing through the karaoke selection offered. It had been very slim, to her disappointment. Mostly top hits ranging from today to the 2000’s. No showtunes. She took a seat across from the two girls, Brittany having wandered off (much to Rachel’s disappointment).

Quinn refused to answer and gulped at her margarita earnestly.

Santana was shameless. "Yeah, why not? No one cares here, babe."

Quinn cringed at Santana’s use of the petname on Rachel.

"What's your poison?" Santana offered with this light to her eye that Quinn honestly knew she couldn't trust. It was the pursed lips she had before she pulled out a twisted new sex toy to try, or the crinkled grin when she made Quinn beg the older woman to touch her.

"San, don't be stup-" Quinn began.

"What do you suggest? I've only ever had wine coolers, really."

Quinn was pretty sure the complex weight of her glare on the underage brunette was heavier than the world on Atlas's shoulders.

They discussed for a solid five minutes the varying personalities of drinks (after a "wine coolers are so lame, Berry. Thank god you have us now," to which Quinn downed her drink at the concept of an "us" existing). The Grateful Dead: a dangerous mix of the hard liquors, sweet enough to taste like candy, and easy to lose count of. A cranberry martini: classic, simple, and a hard kick fast-forwarding to the next day if you let it. A slender glass of Barefoot: easy to sip, gets you giggly in the half hour. And so it went on, Santana a goddamn encyclopedia for the foodrunner to browse through at her leisure.

Rachel ended up getting a margarita "just like Quinn. That looks delicious." Santana had plucked Quinn's (second, by now) drink from her claws and offered it to Rachel to taste. It was back to Quinn's lips in the quickest of breaths, but Rachel still smiled at her warmly. Quinn in turn glowered at Santana.

Santana just laughed, and called for a whole round of margaritas.

 

Within the hour, Quinn was on stage with Kurt, crooning "I Kissed A Girl." Rachel had spent most the time cuddled up with her numerous margaritas and a sober, amused Brittany, chatting about mostly work ethics and industrial patterns — definitely not the kind of thing Quinn would ever divulge in with a bottle of tequila in the room. Santana frequented about the room, like a child on a sugar rush, playing darts with Finn, made out with a boy ("okay yeah I'm still gay, thanks though"), tried to dance on a table before Brittany pushed her back down because she didn’t want to get kicked out, Santana flirted shamelessly with her, and so on. Quinn mostly drank at their table. She hustled Puck at a game of darts, earning more free drinks in the process, and slapped him when he grabbed her ass. Santana may have saw the motion we well, and yelled at the poor boy in Spanish, less out of jealousy and more out of a protective instinct. Quinn ended up on stage, really, to wave off Santana's growing advances (of course the nights she wasn't into the whole sex scandal, Santana desperately was — they'd typically argue it out heatedly until Quinn was pressed against the wall).

But when Quinn clambered down from the podium with Kurt — "you got way too sharp, Fabray," he called after her teasingly, though his tone was laced with an affection for the young blonde server — Rachel was on Quinn's side in a heartbeat, pulling her back to the table before Santana could say "fuck me."

Blearily looking after where Santana was fuming (Quinn mouthed "you brought her,"), Quinn had little say in being tugged down onto the bench beside Rachel. She would have asked what the brat wanted, but she supposed she was one of the few people in here Rachel knew well enough to converse with and that still wasn't plastered like paste (just Santana, actually). Even though Quinn kind of hated Rachel's guts in a not-really-at-all type way, it was surprisingly fine being clung to in such a heated proximity.

"Brittany asked me what my favorite color is," she yelled into Quinn's ear over the loud music, fretfully glancing about her like someone might eavesdrop.

"Cool." Quinn wiggled just enough from Rachel's grasp to reach for the drink Santana had left at the table. "Where is Brittany?" she choked out after setting the lukewarm vodka tonic back. Maybe B would order her something with flavor. She honestly wasn't that drunk. She'd had, what, four margaritas? Five? Plus a few shots diluted into the hour. The way Quinn Fabray could hold her liquor was honestly getting expensive. She could so walk a straight line right now.

"I think she went to show Sam something." Rachel explained dismissively. "But pay attention — What do I say?"

Sam? Yeah, B was so straight.

"I don't know. What is your favorite color?"

"Gold."

Quinn's head bobbed a little, tilting. "Tell her black. I like black."

Rachel's eyes dropped to Quinn's fingernails, immaculately painted a jetblack, trimmed very short. A brief flash of Quinn leaping from the bathroom with Santana in tow burst behind her hazy eyelids, and she quickly pushed it back down.

"I love margaritas," Rachel stammered."Your taste is impeccable."

"Thanks, I drink a lot."

"Do you?"

"I guess."

"Why?"

Quinn shrugged.

"How old are you, again? You're 19, right?"

Quinn's chin bobbed. Her thighs were growing an uncomfortable itch between them. Shit, Rachel talked a lot when she was drunk. "Do you know where Santana is?" she asked, voice pitched to be heard. She physically cringed at the obnoxious volume in the little pub.

Rachel ignored the question. "When did you start working at Holly's?"

Quinn puffed her lips, blowing bubbles with air. "I dunno. Few years ago."

"What brought you to the establishment?"

Quinn laughed, because it was airily sounding like her first interview with Will all those years ago. "No idea," she lied.

"Come on," Rachel prodded, her fingertips wiggling under Quinn's arm, tickling her. Quinn giggled — a chaste sound from her lips that was hastily swallowed.

"Um." Quinn licked her lips and scrabbled for focus, brushing her hair off from her eyes. Rachel inched closer, vigorously awaiting Quinn's answer. Answer. Right. She needed an answer. She also needed to focus.Rachel's tight black uniform shirt clinging to her curves was so not focus. How was Rachel so composed? Surely she'd had just as much to drink as Quinn, and the tiny dwarf was clearly no match for the toxins of ethanol. "I didn't want to so completely depend on my parents, I guess," she managed. 

It sounded so stupid, now.

"I can understand that." Rachel nodded wisely.

Quinn nodded dumbly again and looked away. Sam was trying to wrestle some darts from Kurt, who was long past his countable cocktail, and Brittany nowhere to be seen. Quinn had to laugh at their boyish struggle.

"Do you still live with your parents?" Rachel asked beside her. Quinn physically swatted the question away; it was distasteful in her elated mood. She would so not cry tonight.

"Are you and Santana dating?" she tried curiously, raising her voice.

Quinn laughed once more and pointed at Kurt, patting at Rachel's arm so she'd look too. He was aiming the sharp utensil at Sam threateningly, who took a defensive football-like pose.

"You were on the Cheerios, right? In high school?"

This caught Quinn's attention. Her neck craned down to the girl slumped against her. "Yeah..." Quinn drawled cautiously, eyes narrowed.

Rachel trailed her excited fingertips along Quinn's forearm idly. "I was a freshman when you were a senior," she confessed.

"Oh... cool?"

"I mean, we never spoke, or anything."

"Right."

After a pause, Rachel added "You don't remember me, do you?"

No, she didn't, not at all. As a senior in high school with life just erupting at your feet, the girl of your dreams (so you thought) at your hand, a promise for an education and a future all blinking at the skyline... well, why should she have bat an eye at a freshman with a small voice and big words? But Quinn couldn't quite just come out with that, not under those wavy puppy-brown eyes. Quinn fumbled with her fingers, and she was reaching for the tonic again because no one tried to talk shit with her when she was drunk. Alcohol was about sex and singing, not reminiscing over the golden ages of stellar popularity and cheerleader thrones. 

"I, um-"

"Yo, Q!" Santana bellowed, dashing from the bathroom with Chelsea's hand in her own (a new server: tall, quiet, cute).

Santana latched onto Quinn, clambering between her and Rachel, her nails scratching lightly at Quinn's bicep. "Why haven't we ever had a threesome?" she hissed in this low voice that rubbed Quinn in the wrong (right) way. Quinn choked on the drink, sputtering. Santana tugged on Chelsea's arm for directed emphasis. The redhead waved over Santana's shoulder.

Quinn blinked. Her cheeks were already a deep red from the drinks and the singing and the laughing and Rachel's questions. It would be unrealistic to think they could rouge darker. And, if she was being honest, Chelsea distantly reminded her of Jen, the ex from senior year that left nothing but dust in her high-heeled wake. She couldn't quite place whether or not that made it all the hotter, or just queasy.

Rachel, beside them, patted at her hair self-consciously, tugging on her sleeves, eyes unnaturally jerking around the room like she wasn't sitting less than a foot away from the coworkers she was acutely aware were engaged in a sexual affair. An affair that even the walls of the workplace had witnessed. And now the two were all over one another, contemplating an expansion of their duet. It was just _awkward_ and she was too tipsy to suppress her wildly blushing cheeks.

"You don't like to share," was all Quinn could guess, not looking at Rachel either, though for different reasons than simple discomfort.

"True. Let's do it anyway." Santana let go of Chelsea to straddle Quinn, completely ignoring the young brunette.

Quinn couldn't resist the temptation of the mouth hovering by her neck, murmuring "please," to her dry ears. God, it'd be so easy and normal to let her hands fall to full hips and make out with her right there and maybe call a cab later and-

A cab.

A ride.

Home?

"Rachel."

Quinn pushed Santana off her, albeit more roughly than necessary (" _ay! Dios mío, marica_.") and grabbed the girls arm beside her. "How are you getting home?"

Rachel wasn't looking at either of them, trying to focus on Finn and Will singing "Last Friday Night."

"Rach," Quinn pressed, prodding the girl in the stomach.

The girl squeaked and smacked at Quinn's hand. "What?" she huffed.

"How are you getting home?" she asked again. Did Rachel even have a home? Maybe she lived at Holly's. Did she live with Holly Holiday? Was that legal?

"No, I do not live with Holly Holliday. I've never even met her," (Quinn was friends with Holly on Facebook). "Though I don't see how that could be illegal, Quinn."

Quinn clamped her palm over her mouth, biting her finger. God, the last thing she needed to be was a sloppy drunk that voiced her every dirty thought.

Brushing at her nasty work pants, Rachel looked quite composed for a drunk high school girl. Well, aside from her tangled hair and clammy forehead. "Brittany said she would take me home." She smiled dreamily, her hand falling atop Quinn's. "Isn't that so sweet?"

Quinn blinked, looking down at Rachel's hand with her own. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

If Brittany told Rachel she was taking her home, Quinn knew she could count on her. Reliability was basically a second name glued onto Pierce. There was a reason she was a manager.

"Brittany is so sweet," Rachel continued.

"Yeah. Totally." Quinn swallowed.

She looked like she wanted to delve more onto the topic of her dream woman, but barely two minutes later Quinn was outside shoving Santana against the brick wall and dragging her hands under her shirt (after snapping at Chelsea to get lost, obviously. Quinn Fabray did not share either).

 


	5. Fuel to the Fire

**Note:** Song by The Maine. Sorry I took so long for the update! I hope it was worth the wait. If it isn't yet, it will be. Leave a comment, and I'll post sooner!

 

* * *

 

 

**Five: Fuel To The Fire**

 

So far, the kitchen had ruined three different burgers for the same table ( _Christ_ , was it that hard to cook a medium rare?), Puck poured a milkshake down Quinn's front ("are you _fucking_ kidding me?"), the new bartender spilled a sangria pitcher for one of Quinn's tables on the table itself, ("right, right, how about you go be _helpful_ up my ass,"), and the hostesses had triple-sat her, seating three different parties at the same time just as the food was coming up for another party ("do you even know how to do your job?").

Finn called Santana around three to calm the blonde down, but the Latina said something along the lines of "douse her in holy water, I don't care," and Finn was pretty sure that wasn't going to help things.

Needless to say, it was a shitty day.

And it was with a tight-lipped, barely-there smile, so forced it was depressing, that Quinn greeted Rachel and her high school friends sitting at one of her very own tables.

"Hi.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “My name's Quinn.” She deliberately spoke slow, hoping maybe the pure distaste wasn’t obvious.

Rachel interrupted the rest of her spiel. “Guys, this is Quinn Fabray. She went to McKinley a few years ago.”

Oh, that little shit.

The girls all looked up from their menus with blank stares. Some narrowed their eyes.

“Quinn-Who?” two said in unison. They looked at Rachel emptily.

Rachel looked at Quinn.

Quinn mouthed “ _what the fuck._ ”

“Um… Quinn Fabray… She, um, was on the Che-”

“Right,” Quinn interrupted. “Well, that was a long time ago. Anyways, I'll be your server today, can I start you guys off with something to-"

"I'll have a Shirley Temple."

"Me too."

"Me three."

"Me... four? Is that a thing?"

_No, it's not a fucking thing. It's not 'me two.' Idiots._

They all laughed. Well, Rachel didn't. But Quinn couldn't care less.

The blonde swallowed a boiling contempt and turned to the brunette with a stare Medusa would whimper at. "And for you?"

"I'm good with a water, thank you, Quinn."

It didn't matter how apologetic Rachel seemed, or nauseous at the behavior of her classmates. Quinn would fucking rip her hair out their next shift together for bringing in these obnoxious brats. She wouldn’t bother expecting them to tip properly.

When she left to punch in the drink orders, with a brisk "I'll be right back with that," Quinn pulled out her phone to see a text from Santana.  
  
 **Please calm down. You're gonna make Finessa piss himself. And tell him to stop calling me. I'm watching Lip Service.**  
  
Quinn's grinding teeth sounded more like a growl as she typed up a reply.  
  
 _She's sitting in my section._

**Who?**

_Rachel._

**Nice. Tell her I say hey.**

_She's with her “friends.”_

**Alright. Tell them too, I guess?**

_No, I hate them._

**Chill. I’m sure they hate you too.**

_Fuck off._

**I would, if my marathon would stop being interrupted.**

_You’re absolutely disgusting._

**You worship me.**  
  
Quinn stuffed her phone into the drawer and stalked off. God, she hated making Shirley Temples.  
  


 

  
Three of them ordered the Fettuccine Alfredo. The fourth said she was allergic to anchovies and promptly ordered a caesar salad. Quinn spent five minutes explaining that caesar dressing was made with anchovies before the girl rolled her eyes dramatically (Quinn raised an eyebrow) and asked instead for a tomato basil pasta.

Quinn’s notepad was ripped with how aggressively she wrote down the orders.

Rachel ordered a Cobb salad. "Please no chicken or egg, please, I'm vegan. Please."

If she had said please one more time Quinn might have dumped a tub of mayonnaise over her perfect little goddamn head.

But of course, twenty minutes later, Quinn stood with four pastas balanced upon her arms, passing them down to stuck-up brats, and she turned to take the Cobb salad from Puck to hand to Rachel and-

It's got an egg in it. A hard boiled egg, smashed and crumbled all over the _stupid_ salad.

"Shit," she mumbled. Puck was standing there still, looking at her look at the salad, and Rachel was looking up with an outstretched hand to make it easier for Quinn to set down so she didn't have to lean and fumble in setting down the dish and there was a _stupid fucking egg_ in the _stupid fucking salad_.

Before Rachel could ask what was wrong or Puck could explain why he would grab a salad that so clearly had egg in it, matching with a ticket that so clearly read NO EGG, Quinn was stomping to the kitchen and just short of throwing the dish down the salad bar.

"Can you morons read?" she boomed, scrabbling through the stabbed tickets for her own.

The salad guy, Ed, a new worker in his early forties, raised bushy eyebrows and set down the avocado he was carving. "Excuse-"

"No. _You_ don't talk," Quinn snapped. "I need this salad remade, on the fly."

He was still staring at her.

" _Now_ , jackass." She unraveled the crumpled ticket, and circled the salad modifications (seven times) before flinging it down at the cook. "Fuck up again, and I swear you'll be lucky to even get your two weeks."

All ready for a full-fledged storm out, like a hurricane ripping roots form the ground and twisting about the charred landscape, Quinn spun on her heel and was going to swing open the doors but-

Rachel stood there, in her stupid black skirt and white polka-dotted sweater that exposed raw collarbones and that emphasized modest, round breasts. She had her hands on her hips, and she was fucking _smirking_.

 

XX

 

“Bitch,” the cook mumbled after the skimpy blonde waitress dashed off through the crusty kitchen doors with the remade salad.

“Watch it, Ed,” the frier beside him warned.

“Why?” Ed drawled irritably. “She’s a fucking spoiled brat.”

Adam licked his teeth, a sigh wheezing through them. “Because she’s the best, you know?. You and I? We’re greasy cooks. Sure, she just seems like a snarky little slut, but management worships her, you know? She’s like– a prodigy. You know?”

“Dude. This is a kitchen, not an Ivy league.”

“I’m just sayin’. If you like your job, watch it, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

 

XX

  
Normally, Hollys’ employees received free drinks (sodas, teas, coffee – not liqueur) and half-price on the food, including desserts.

Still, promptly using Finn's manager code on the computer, Quinn took off the price of the Cobb salad, all the drinks, and threw in a free dessert (though, Rachel being vegan, and Holly's not exactly a hippie sanctuary, the dairy Magic Brownie her friends ordered was demolished by everyone but Rachel, and it was all so _stupid_ ).

Quinn said nothing but a clipped "thank you," that hollowly rung in her throat like a pristine blonde from her bloodline (and God, sounding like her mother made her just want to vomit) as she handed them the check.

When the girls left and Quinn was cleaning off the table, Quinn opened the checkbook to see a twenty dollar tip (on a fifty dollar bill, the standard tip would be no more than ten). At the bottom, a scribbled " _excellent service, thank you very much Quinn_ " stared up at the blonde. Beside it was a shooting star.

Later in the day, when she was cashing out to finish up her shift, she pocketed the receipt.

 

XX

 

“Quinn, get up.”

“Quinn, it’s quarter to eleven.”

“Quinn, you’re gonna be late.”

“Quinn, I’m leaving without you.”

 

XX

 

“Quinn, you’re late.”

“Quinn– Oh, my God, you _reek_.”

“Quinn, did you even shower?”

“Quinn, just– would you take out the trash?”

“Quinn, table 42 needs you.”

“Quinn, 41 wants the check.”

“Quinn, 44’s food is up.”

“Quinn, 44 wants a 16 ounce Bud Light, kid’s chocolate milk, an Arnold Palmer, and four waters.”

“Quinn, did you hear what I just said?”

“Quinn? Are you listening to me?”

 

She really wasn’t listening to anything at all.

 

“Happy birthday, Quinn.”

Her voice was silvery.

The blonde stopped typing on the computer. Her pen rolled off the counter. She looked at Rachel. Quinn’s flesh was diffusing off her skeletal frame to a pathetic puddle at her ankles, with the kind of stench only a hangover could produce. And Rachel looked back.

“Oh… thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Quinn.”

December 29th.

Quinn was twenty years old.

She didn’t get any cards in the mail, she was pretty sure. But then again, she didn’t check either.

 

XX

 

“Should we invite Rachel?”

“No.”

“Q, c’mon, everyone loves her.”

God, that hurt. That really, really hurt on an insecure plane lodged in her throat.

“Move in with her, then,” Quinn growled.

“Oh, don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t invite her.”

Santana stared hard at her for a long moment. Tight-jawed, her eyes rolled softly. “Whatever. Fine.”

 

XX

 

On that New Year’s morning, Rachel saw pictures on Facebook of Santana straddling Brittany on a couch. Her stomach churned.

It hurt on a materialistic plane. It was ostensible.

Pictures of Santana and Brittany and Mercedes and Chelsea and Finn and even _Noah_ and other servers she didn’t recognize– that hurt. Even some new cook named Brody was there.

All of them, crammed into the single-bedroom Fabray-Lopez apartment complex, blowing streamers and shoveling cakes (though more smearing across one anothers’ faces than actual eating) were brittle inklings of how much Rachel was missing out on, and all that hurt just a bit more.

It might’ve been different if she’d even been aware of a New Year’s celebration. If brought up, she could easily wager that she’d had plans already and _chose_ not to go. It was different, having no invitation at all. It made perfect sense why not, though. She was just a kid; she was still in high school for crying out loud. She was still in a smelly pit of juvenile, immature idiots that didn’t know the first thing about financial struggle and college rejection or having a job where people actually depended on you. She may not be one of those kids, but she was associated. And because of that, despite being one of the employees, she was shunned and unassociated with their outings. It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t cruel.

It was just awfully lonely.

 

XX

 

Seventy-eight.

Seventy-nine.

Eighty.

Quinn’s vertebrae smacked against the floor mat like a ton of bricks, her slick, sweaty skin squeaking.

A man with orange hair, at least fifteen years older than her, was staring.

The urge to vomit was barely suppressive each time his lazy eyes met hers.

Exercise was so not an easy task for Quinn. Five minutes into pumping the elliptical or tugging the row machine, she drooped with boredom. Or from distraction. It wasn’t by anything in particular. A tampon commercial could be the most exciting informercial she’d ever seen as long as it played at the gym.

But a remark from Santana about a beer belly combined with buried adolescent insecurities that had led to an eating disorder sent Quinn careening down the highway. It was obviously a joke. For one thing, Quinn didn’t drink beer. For another, she knew she was (debatably) hotter than Santana herself, with her milky slender legs and polished abs. Working in a fast-paced restaurant was a workout within itself. But… sometimes… well, okay, the only thing that would settle anxious panic in Quinn’s stomach was vodka or stifling exercise, and Santana’s cabinet was vacant, and Santana was at work.

So she pounded sit-ups and dragged herself across the treadmill.

“Quinn?”

She didn’t consciously notice it, the way the crippling anxiety melted away, but it was gone. Replaced with an irritable scorn, sure, but certainly no longer panic.

Quinn peeled herself off the mat and squinted. “Hi, Rachel,” she replied dryly. Of course.

Rachel had her hands on her hips casually, and she was almost grinning down on the blonde. It was both degrading and lifting.

“I didn’t know you come here!”

“Yep… here I am.” Quinn smiled stiffly, nodded, and turned to rest back down for more sit-ups.

Rachel didn’t leave. Instead, she squeaked “ _oh!_ ” and danced around Quinn to meet her at her feet. “I can spot you.” Her hands clamped down on Quinn’s sneakers (God, her feet probably smelled like death). Rachel was still smiling cheerfully.

“It’s not called spotting. That’s weights.”

“Then what would you call this.”

_Being annoying._ “I have no idea.”

“Then I will spot you.”

“That’s not what it’s _called_.”

“Whatever it is, I’m doing it.”

“I don’t need it.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Do you always pair up with strangers at the gym?”

“You’re not a stranger.”

“I technically am.”

“You’re technically not. We’ve worked together for at least three months.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I run all of your food.”

“No, actually, I run my own tables’ food.”

“Okay, but I could if you’d let me.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Here or there?”

“Rachel.”

“What?”

“Get off me.”

Rachel rolled back, her wrists unlatching from Quinn’s ankles. Neutrality dominating her face, she appeared unphased by Quinn’s mood. It made Quinn want to jeer sadistically, just to get a reaction.

“Well, if you change your mind, I will be on the ellipticals.”

Quinn said nothing.

 

 

The ginger was staring again.

It had been two hours since Quinn got there, and he had been there since long before she.

He was fucking annoying.

Rachel had been on the elliptical for seventy-three minutes straight before she skipped off for the water fountain. And then she was checking her watch, and then she was pulling out her phone and sitting down and toweling off her bare shoulders and tan arms and–

Well, she was certainly less annoying than a peeping creep at a public gym.

Quinn risked another look at the man. He faced her head on. He had put his weights away. He was stepping towards her direction.

“Rachel!” Quinn gasped, lunging to her feet.

Across the room, the brunette jumped, blinking, and popped out an earphone. “What?”

Quinn was attempting to untangle herself from her own earbuds. “I, uh, I– Do you need a ride? Home?” Quinn stammered desperately, shifting her weight back and forth.

“Oh… um…”

Fuck. She probably wasn’t even leaving, just resting and checking her phone idly. It took more discipline than she would have thought to keep her mouth shut.

“Sure, yes, that would be great.”

Her voice glowed like she meant it. If asked, Quinn would lie about what roots the relief stemmed from.

 

 

Quinn scrambled from the driver’s seat to chuck clothes and textbooks from the front into the back. Christ, there was trash on the floor. Her little coupe was a pigsty.

Rachel opened the door.

“Sorry about the mess. I was waiting until after winter to clean this shi– stuff out…”

Rachel shrugged cooly and climbed in. “It’s fine, you should see my brother’s car.”

“You have a brother?”

She nodded, smiling softly. “He’s away at Stanford.”

“Oh, uh, nice.”

“Yeah.”

It was painfully awkward. Driving proved the perfect excuse to keep her eyes focused, but one too many times she glanced aside, and Rachel looked, and Rachel would smile clumsily, and Quinn would look away.

Rachel lived on the opposite side of Lima, closer to Holly’s than Quinn did. Brief directions were mumbled on occasion, with vague gestures.

Rachel wanted to comment on the car; it was dirty, sure, but it was nice. A 2011, maybe? But words crowded her throat.

Quinn wanted something to say, but her tongue was dry, and her head swam with intangible words.

Pulling into the empty driveway a century later, it was shocking to see only ten minutes had passed.

“Thank you again, Quinn.” Her smile was wider than before.

“Are your parents home?” She eyed the closed garage skeptically. No cars were in sight.

“Yes, my dad is. Daddy took the car to work.”

Two dads seemed confusing to Quinn. Obviously not the gay thing, but keeping track with names. Did she alternate titles interchangeably? Did she feel as inappropriate as she sounded when she said “daddy”?

Never having taken a stance, Quinn decided daddy kinks were definitely a turn off.

She nodded regardless, chewing on the inside of her lip. Rachel was walking up the path to the door when Quinn shifted into reverse. Her foot rested on the brake, though, waiting for the front door to open before leaving. It was below freezing, no way she would potentially leave the annoying brat out to simmer down to a chunk of ice. Though, she couldn’t necessarily deny it wouldn’t be good riddance.

On the other hand, in her current position, it was getting harder and harder to argue she detested the high school girl.

Rachel juggled herself foot-to-foot, glancing back hastily at Quinn in a waving-away motion. Quinn refrained from flipping her off, and dropped her gaze down to her knitted hands.

The house door swung open.

Quinn honestly should have left right then.

A tall, lean but lanky man towered over Rachel. His grin was holy. It twitched, and faded somewhat as he looked over Rachel’s shoulder at Quinn. The brunette gestured behind her to the purring car.

Quinn waved awkwardly from behind the windshield.

His arm lifted halfway, to return the wave, but Quinn watched Rachel tug it back down. They continued talking in the doorway.

Weren’t they cold? It hadn’t been that long since she’d had a family, but presumably families debrief one another on their days _inside_.

Quinn really should leave.

Oh, God.

He was tugging his flannel about his small body and tip-toeing down the porch steps. With her windows up, Quinn could hear nothing as Rachel turned around and scrambled to stop him in his tracks. She didn’t look… annoyed, per say, but more worried. Rachel’s father shook off his daughter’s hand and strode long steps down the driveway.

Quinn seriously contemplated speeding out down the street and avoiding this neighborhood indefinitely.

She never won over her own father. How could she handle someone else’s?

She shifted into park and rolled the window down.

“Hello. Quinn, is it?” He leaned down closely, yet a respective distance from her vehicle without crowding her.

She nodded dumbly. “Yes, sir.”

He rubbed his arms, shivering, before pointing over at his daughter. “Damn kid never learned her manners.” Quinn’s lips pricked into a smirk. “I’m Leroy, but call me Mickey.” One hand under his arm for warmth, he extended the other through the open window. Quinn shook it politely.

She didn’t know how Mickey came from Leroy, but she didn’t ask.

“Good to meet you.”

“Are you working tonight, Quinn?” he asked bluntly. She heard the tremor of cold weather tackling his breath. She felt almost rude huddling in her broiling car.

“No, sir.”

“Do you have plans for the evening?”

Drinking herself into a stupor wasn’t an appropriate reply to someone’s father, but she really should have made something up. “No, I don’t.”

“Perfect.” He grinned that charming smile again, looking back at Rachel with a wiggle of his eyebrows (it was kind of impressive the way they squirmed individually like snakes). Leroy opened the car door for her, startling Quinn. “Come on out, then. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

“I’m sorry?” Quinn’s eyelids fluttered. She glanced back to Rachel, but the girl had disappeared inside, evidently sick of the cold. Or maybe too mortified to watch her father embarrass her.

“Hurry up, hun, it’s too damn cold to dawdle out here all day.” He waved in a cycling motion impatiently.

It wasn’t long before Quinn was standing in their mudroom, still in her workout clothes, clutching her keys and phone.

“Make yourself at home. Rachel’s room is through the door, down the stairs.” His comely grin was beginning to dazzle her. Hands in his pockets, he whistled away into the kitchen with slumped shoulders.

She was beginning to see where the nickname Mickey came from.

It wasn’t until behind the door at the top of a staircase that Quinn begin to become acutely aware. Aware of the drumming in her ribs, of the stress-induced vomit threatening to rise. Clammy hands and jerky eyes, she almost had half a mind to dash out for another tire-screeching escape.

Her feet felt otherwise, and carried her down the steps.

By the time the winding walls ended and a basement-turned-bedroom came into view, Rachel was tugging a shirt down her front with wide eyes and red cheeks.

“So, uh, staying for dinner, huh?” the brunette inquired nervously with an embarrassed laugh.

Quinn didn’t even hesitate. “You are so dead, Berry.”

 


	6. Kids

**Note** : It's been like a week, right? I told you, I'm getting better. & I absolutely loved all of your comments. I'm also pretty surprised quite so many people are following this. Keep commenting! I'll probably post even sooner! (Unlikely. I'm actually gonna be AWOL for the next two weeks, hopefully, if I can get my shit together.)

Anyways, this week's song is Kids by MGMT. On another musical note, the song titles aren't what I imagine Quinn or Rachel to listen to necessarily (really, it's the type of music  _I_ listen to), but they've just got the vibes and mood I was going for when writing a given chapter. You can choose whether or not to listen along while you read - up to you. Sometimes it's also just the lyrics that convey an overarching message. Basically don't think too much about it.

Again, let me know what you think of this chapter! I was kind of nervous about posting this one. Comments (negative or positive) are worshiped.

 

* * *

 

**Six: Kids**

 

“If you need to get changed, the bathroom is back upstairs,” Rachel offered lamely.

“I don’t have anything else to wear.”

Rachel stared, unblinking.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on fine dining with a high schooler and her father, so…”

“Oh. Well, would you like to borrow something?”

“No. Thanks.” Quinn’s tone was biting, vindictive. She didn’t sound thankful at all.

Perched at the end of her bed, Rachel’s feet tapped upon the carpet floor. Her skin crawled viciously. Her open bedroom felt both colossal and suffocating with Quinn across the room, sitting at the foot of the stairs.

People didn’t come over anymore. Not that anyone asked to, really. But she didn’t offer either.

Daddy (Hiram) lost his position at RectoGram along with every other employee when the engineering firm went under and liquidated its assets. It happened three years ago, both conveniently and unfortunately before Rachel began high school. Suddenly an expensive townhouse in Chicago transformed into a loft in Lima.

While moving back to dad’s (Mickey’s) hometown to start new didn’t set her at any academic disadvantage, it brought no social prosperity either. She knew no one come the ninth grade. People treated her different in the country. It was nothing like the the city schools where expressing yourself didn’t have a double standard. In Lima, there was no leniency for adolescent personality; there was a box she was supposed to fold herself in, yet there was no room to fit.

Scoring discounts at the town’s most popular restaurant (Breadstix was a close second) helped somewhat on the social ladder.

It’s essential that this was clear: Rachel was not embarrassed of her family’s new economic status, to which she had adjusted to over the past few years. She was not embarrassed of her fathers.

She was not _ashamed_.

But she was scared. To have people over, to have people pry, to have _people_. People both terrified and fascinated her. With a failure for introversion to be enough, she was afraid of her own extroversion. She wished more than anything that she could be a girl satisfied with staying home weekend nights with a book, or on the sofa with her dads and a rom-com. She wished all she _needed_ was her own peace of mind. But who was she kidding?

She’d burn out without the warmth of social interactions. Without _friends_.

It took particular, unpredictable things to phase Quinn. Certainly an apartment in a carnivorous town wasn’t out of the ordinary. It wasn’t even that Quinn didn’t care; it just wasn’t something that she noticed anymore. It wasn’t a factor that mattered in the greater scheme of things.

Quinn was just thankful for a roof over her head and a mattress under her body.

And for a roommate over 21.

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable in something other than spandex shorts,” Rachel articulated carefully, her eyes cast down.

Quinn was a bitch, but the allure of her body was hard to ignore. Rachel was a fat liar if she said she didn’t more than once look over the screen of her elliptical at Quinn, sweaty Quinn, panting, gasping, rippling Quinn.

Rachel chewed on her inner cheek.

Thoughts of Brittany’s sweet smile distracted her. Slightly.

Quinn snorted. “Wearing _your_ clothes will do nothing to comfort me, I assure you.”

And then she didn’t need distracting thoughts anymore, because the distaste for Quinn’s attitude was more than enough coverage.

“Look, I told him not to, okay?” Rachel asserted, her voice just threatening to wobble. “This wasn’t my idea.”

 _Ouch_. Quinn focused her eyes on the ticking clock hand.

“I know an evening with a teenage girl and her gay dad isn’t your ideal Sunday,” Rachel said.

“You’re right. It’s not.” Quinn gritted her teeth. “But I couldn’t care less that your dad’s gay.”

“Well, obviously,” Rachel’s tongue spit out from between her lips before she could decide not to, because that that was _so_ not her business.

Quinn only had to raise an eyebrow.

No one’s ever seen Rachel’s cheeks burn so dark quite so quickly.

“Oh, you know, because you, and um, Santana, and she’s, well, a very good friend, and-”

“Rachel.”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

Rachel toed at the carpet again, and Quinn tugged at a loose seam on her tight shirt.

Rachel would have collapsed into a void if she could. Quinn would have made herself into one if she had the right brand of scotch on hand.

Quinn dug her nails into her palm. “Why did he?”

“Why did who what?”

Quinn huffed and rolled her eyes again. “Your dad. Why did he ask me to stay?”

“I don’t know. He’s friendly. He’s polite. He wants to get to know the person who drove me home. Or he just wants to make sure I’m not deceptively working at a strip club.”

“My dad said the same thing,” Quinn muttered bitterly.

It just came out. But she shouldn’t have said it.

She shouldn’t have stayed over at all, really.

“Does he live around here? Your dad?”

He wasn’t supposed to be her dad anymore. He was her _father_ at _best_ , and even still, she shouldn’t be _thinking_ of him after two years, and oh _God_ her throat was closing.

“No,” Quinn forced. Her fingers quivered.

“Where is he?”

Her eyes boiled with threatening, hot tears. “Do you ever mind your own fucking business?” Quinn snapped, her knees trembling as she lurched to her feet.

Rachel’s mouth peaked open.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked loudly.

“Dinner’s ready, ladies!”

 

 

Once upstairs, Quinn excused herself to the bathroom to wash her hands.

She was thankful she didn’t put on mascara that day.

She waited for the redness of her eyes to fade before she turned off the faucet.

 

 

“My apologies that Honey-Boo-Boo couldn’t make it tonight. He’s got the night shift, poor baby.” Mickey held a hand to his chest mockingly as he sat down.

To Quinn, Rachel mouthed _“daddy_ ,” and the blonde nodded.

“Well, _bon appétit, mes chères dames._ ” His accent was ridiculously American with choppy pronunciation, and Quinn smiled. “So Quinn, remind me, how old are you again?” Mickey asked a bit later around a large bite of salad.

A salad had never felt so heavy in her stomach as it did then, Rachel thought. Her neck hurt with how low she had been keeping her head through the meal.

“I’m twenty,” Rachel heard Quinn say.

From the corner of her eye, she saw her dad raise both of his immaculate eyebrows. But he moved on. “Alright, _Ms. Fabray_. Are you in school?”

“Yeah, I am. I…” The hesitance in Quinn’s voice was glaring. “I go to Lima Community.”

She sounded so ashamed.

Mickey clapped his lands so abruptly that both girls jumped in their seats, looking at him in surprise. “I went there!” he squealed, before letting out a sharp, western whistle. “Hot _dogs_!” Only Quinn this time jumped at the whistle, while Rachel quickly broke into a smile.

Almost there herself, Quinn met Rachel’s eyes.

Their gaze didn’t even hold for a full second.

Quinn grinned.

“I got my A.A. in the arts there.” Mickey sat up in his seat and set down his fork. “I remember, yeah, my parents were so mad. I got accepted to DePaul, in Chicago? Yeah? Yeah, okay, and well, _I_ rejected _them_. Because, I didn’t want to waste ten grand a term to take the same classes I could take right here. You catchin’ my drift?”

Quinn’s teeth were peeking through her smile.

“Yeah, ‘course you are. What’s the big plan?” Mickey interjected.

Rachel watched Quinn’s smile twitch.

Dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, the blonde sat up straighter. “I’m working on my associate’s too, but in natural science.” Mickey’s ears wiggled, and Rachel laughed. Quinn glanced back at Rachel for a moment before continuing. “As soon as I’ve got that, I have to re-apply to Columbia so I can complete a bachelor’s in organic chemistry. I was supposed to go right after high school but-” _But my parents locked the door and locked the bank account but still claimed me on their taxes, and I was too helpless and cowardly to fight back_. “I just didn’t go.” There was another flickering pause. “Then I have to go to med school and get my MD. At some point, I have to do an internship to decide which field I want to specialize in, and gain the experience and, you know, do the assessments. Basically, anywhere they’ll take me is where I’ll go. I probably won’t do any residency, but I’m not ruling that out entirely…? I guess? The ultimate goal is to um… be a doctor without borders, which I don’t need any residency to do, but it would give me some leverage over others in the same field. Columbia hosts a post-grad program for this; it’s mostly just a guide with grants and connections to help you get established outside the country without messing with your US citizenship. I’ll probably tour around Africa for most of my career, but if I ever want to settle down, I’ll hole up somewhere in Europe. Or come back here. I haven’t thought that far ahead, really.”

Mickey had his chin in both hands, elbows on the table, with glittering, dumbfounded eyes.

Rachel’s jaw was slacked and hanging open.

The two exchanged a weighted look, before swiveling back to Quinn.

“Wow,” Rachel breathed.

“Great Golly,” Mickey mumbled. “‘ _Not that far ahead_ ,’” he mocked sarcastically under his breath. He scratched at his scalp, sitting up. He narrowed his eyes at Quinn, not skeptically, but more out of a heavy curiosity. Then he looked at Rachel, then Quinn again, and back at Rachel.

“Where in the holy garden of Eden did you find her? Are we keeping her?”

Maybe it was okay she didn’t run down their mailbox in a desperate escape.

 

 

“Are you dating anyone, Quinn?” Mickey called from the kitchen as he packaged up the leftovers.

Rachel coughed violently on her vegan biscotti cookie, spewing crumbs across the table.

When she cleared her throat and looked up, she expected wild, angry hazel eyes, and Rachel’s cheeks were screaming with heat as she slowly, slowly lifted her chin and-

Quinn had a gentle, bemused smile betwixt her lips.

(Rachel didn’t think of Brittany again until long after Quinn had already left.)

Quinn drummed her fingers almost _playfully_ (Rachel’s eyes felt as if they were bugging out like a cartoon).

“No; now isn’t really the time for serious dating, I don’t think. At least I have no desire to.” God only knows she did not need another Jen in her life. Quinn was also fairly certain she was too selfish to ever fully commit. To anyone.

Quinn didn’t look at Rachel.

Quinn also ignored the three texts from Santana that weighed heavily in her lap.

“Good answer, _Madame_.” From through breakfast window, she saw him bow towards her, and she laughed.

Rachel grinned.

“Think ya could teach that to this kid?” he joked, re-entering the combined dining & living room.

Rachel dropped the grin and blushed.

To the younger girl’s surprise, Quinn laughed boldly. “I’ll work on it.”

Rachel buried her face in her arms, slumping over the crumby table, murmuring “Oh, God.”

Chuckling, Mickey asked, “So, four years at Holly’s you said? And you’re twenty now?” Quinn nodded. “And here I thought my Bubba was too young to start working.” He thrust a thumb at Rachel’s direction. “But sixteen, wow.” He inflated his cheeks and loudly released the breath. “How’d your folks fancy that?”

Little, _little_ needles bombarded Quinn’s spine.

She should really be used to it by now.

From the outburst downstairs an hour ago, Rachel knew enough to lift her head and cautiously scan Quinn. The escalating pillar of the blonde’s posture was subtle enough that Rachel almost didn’t notice it.

“They let me work,” Quinn enunciated vaguely, twisting the wrapper of Rachel’s cookie between her fingers.

Mickey pursed his lips, his head bobbing.

He didn’t see it.

“And you grew up here in Lima, yeah?” he asked curiously.

Quinn only nodded, not looking at him.

The father exchanged a look with his daughter, who gave the barest shaking of her head.

But before he could appropriately change the subject, it was over. Quinn stood. “I have to go,” she blurted, and then sobered quickly. “My roommate will turn the place into a blackhole if she thinks I’m not coming home.”

The idea that Santana was a catastrophic slob at home amused Rachel.

Mickey barely flinched. “Like a needy feline fella,” he agreed wisely with an arm slung over the back of his chair. “But sure thing. Thank you for humoring me by staying. I just love any excuse to both ignore and humiliate my kid at the same time.” He winked at his daughter.

Quinn smiled stiffly. “Anytime.” She glanced at Rachel, before casting her eyes to the wall behind her. “I left my keys downstairs, I’ll just, um…” Quinn trailed off, nodding at the door before disappearing behind it.

By the time Rachel recovered enough to stand up herself, Quinn was already back in the dining room with her keys, waving and relaying out the front door.

Quinn ripped out of the driveway holding her breath. When she got home ten minutes later, she turned off the engine and laid her head on the steering wheel long enough for the winter chill of outside to seep inside. By the time she trudged into the apartment, the car was cold and frosting over.

 

XX

 

“Okay, in all seriousness, do you think Lucky Charms or Cinnamon Toast Crunch has more sugar?”

Quinn leisurely pushed the grocery cart in front of her, bored. “No idea. Check the label.”

“No, like, based solely off taste and stuff.”

“I don’t know; I don’t eat cereal.”

“You don’t who-in-the-what-now?”

Quinn stopped walking after a moment. Ten feet behind her, Brittany stood in the center of the aisle clutching five Family Size cereal boxes to her chest. Quinn’s eyes narrowed minimally.

“I don’t eat cereal,” she repeated slowly.

“Quinn, that’s _horrifying._ ”

Quinn chased her index finger around the metal of the cart’s handle, hips tilted and jaw pursed. She stared at Brittany emptily, who in turn gaped with— well, horror.

“Alright.” Quinn kept walking.

“Honey, that’s just not healthy.” Brittany jogged up behind her worriedly.

“I think it actually is…” Quinn murmured, rounding a corner.

“I could probably live off cereal, because like, honestly? _Anything_ can be made into cereal. Just let it go hard and dry, put it in a bowl, and add some milk.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Quinn countered softly, lugging a twelve-pack of Coke Zero under the cart. “You can’t turn a T-Bone steak into cereal.”

Brittany scoffed, and slapped the opposite blonde’s hand. “Shut up, you know I meant, like, bananas and stuff.”

“Sure, B.”

 

 

“She hates peppermint.”

“No, she hates spearmint.”

“...is there a difference?”

“Oh, my God, _yes_ Quinn! Peppermint tastes like candy canes, and spearmint tastes like gum.”

“Alright.” Quinn moved on past the candy aisle.

From behind, Brittany scoffed. “You’re not getting her anything?”

“No,” Quinn called back dryly.

A few minutes later, Brittany caught up to Quinn and loaded four bags of peppermint chocolate into the cart. “This is why Santana likes me more,” she claimed, stern.

“Alright, B.”

 

 

“Oh, my God.”

Quinn grunted, eyes scanning the frozen foods.

“Quinn.” Brittany’s voice dropped low and she began tugging on the younger girl’s arm.

“What?” Quinn hissed, opening the cool door.

Forcefully, Brittany smacked her arm and squealed. “Quinn! Would you _look_!”

“ _Jesus fucking-_ ”

At the end of the aisle by the ice cream, Rachel was leaning against one of the frozen doors. She examined her trimmed fingernails on her left hand, talking in a low voice, but Quinn heard nothing, only saw the gentle vibrations of her lips.

Her dads were nowhere in sight.

But beside her, a curly-haired boy was knelt over in front of the door. When he stood again, Quinn dropped her Stouffer’s vegetable lasagna onto the floor.

He was holding her right hand.

After dumping a tub of ice cream in their basket, the boy grinned and planted a kiss on Rachel’s forehead.

“I didn’t know Rachel had a boyfriend,” Brittany gasped, squeezing Quinn’s bicep. The manager began to hop in place excitedly.

“I didn’t either.” Quinn’s tone was cold and resentful, and she picked up the frozen meal. Brittany was whispering something, ( _“oh-my-gosh-this-is-so-cute”_ ), but Quinn was already trudging away in the opposite direction.

 

 

It didn’t matter, obviously.

It was none of her business.

It’s not like she’d ever _asked_ Rachel if she had a boyfriend.

Maybe that was what her father meant? When he said “ _think ya could teach that to this kid?_ ”

Maybe everyone knew but Quinn?

Maybe she was the odd one out, _again_?

Mickey’s words racketed around in Quinn’s fragile skull.

 

 

“Rachel!” Brittany called with a shit-eating grin, waving manically.

The brunette bounced in her boots, twirling around. “Oh, hi Brittany.” Rachel’s voice whipped, and her eyes dreamily grew heavy. “How are you?” She dropped the boy’s hand to twirl a lock of her hair.

Brittany adjusted the strap of her bag, still all toothy as she looked over the boy. “I’m _gooood_ ,” she drawled. “How’re you, my dearest?”

Rachel giggled, not breaking eye contact and leaning on the boy. She only nodded vigorously.

Brittany smirked and correctly interpreted teen infatuation, but she misplaced the object of her desires. “And who’s this cutie?” Brittany nudged her chin in his direction.

The grin immediately dropped from Rachel’s face.

Jesse mirrored the smirk and held out his hand. “Jesse James Berry. I’m the brother.”

Brittany tried to hide her disappointment, but took his hand somewhat bitterly. “Pleasure,” she retorted dryly.

“Are you shopping?” Rachel blurted, not seeing a basket or cart beside Brittany.

“Yeah,” she grumbled, flipping her hair. “I’m here with Quinn. She’s-” Brittany waved dismissively towards the entire other side of the store. “She’s somewhere.”

 

 

Quinn’s cell phone vibrated as she stood in line at the register.

**Not the boyfriend :( Just the brother :((((**

Quinn couldn’t contain her smile.

 

XX

 

Santana was eating her out the first time her phone rang.

Quinn had fisted dark hair and hissed, “I swear to fucking God if you answer that I will rip you a second asshole.”

Santana believed it, and they both let the phone go off.

An hour later, Quinn checked it, but she didn’t recognize the number, and they hadn’t left a voicemail either.

 

XX

 

The second time, it was midnight, and she was drunk off some martinis Brittany had made.

“Oh no, you don’t,” the manager crooned, plucking the phone from Quinn’s grasp and answering it. “Hi,” Brittany drawled, giggling. “Quinn’s a bit busy at the moment, but she will surely call you back tomorrow. Bye!”

Brittany hung up without waiting for a response. Santana laughed harder than she should have.

Come the morning, (sans hangover for once, because Brittany knew how to pour a glass of water, whereas Santana pretended vodka was the same thing) and Quinn forgot about the call entirely.

 

XX

 

The third time, it was 1:00 in the afternoon, and Quinn snored the ringing away on the couch.

When she woke up, no voicemail had been left, the number still bore unfamiliar upon her, and she didn’t care enough to call back.

 

XX

 

The fourth time, Quinn was just walking through the front doors of an art studio. She had found a flyer outside Holly’s on the bulletin board sponsoring some free sculpting classes at the town media center, and she couldn’t resist.

She recognized the number this time, but only as an unknown that had appeared on multiple occasions over the past week.

Already inside, and three minutes late for the class, she hit **Ignore**.

 

XX

 

The fifth time, it was Valentine’s day, and she was with Rachel.

Or, well, Rachel was scribbling calculus at an empty table in the restaurant’s break room before their shift, and Quinn had sat down across from her. She hadn’t personally spoken to the girl since that Sunday dinner, give or take a few growls in the workplace and the spotting at the grocery store.

“Your brother was in town.” It was no question, and Quinn looked…

Smug.

Hesitantly, Rachel plucked an earbud out and set down her pencil. “Yes, he was.”

Santana came breezing in through the back door, stopped in her tracks, looked between the two younger girls, and smirked. Quinn ignored her. Rachel looked up and smiled sweetly.

Quinn nonchalantly dismissed the bartender. “Brittany had hoped he was your… boyfriend.” The word was clunky against Quinn’s tongue, and she frowned slightly.

“Hoped?” Rachel echoed. She gnawed on her lip.

Quinn shrugged. “You know Brittany,” she retorted vaguely.

“I mean, I don’t, really,” Rachel pressed.

Quinn had been waiting for the Santana to sit beside her, to cut off the conversation for something surely less interesting before the meeting. But she never did. Quinn looked up now, and Santana was across the room and sitting with Chelsea. Meeting the blonde’s gaze, she smiled, but continued on with the redhead.

“She’s… Brittany,” Quinn repeated, huffing at Santana and crossing her arms.

“I don’t-”

“She’s, like, a hopeless romantic. She thought it would have been cute.” Quinn refrained from sneering, and instead rolled her eyes.

“That’s actually disgusting,” Rachel mumbled. Surely she and Jesse looked enough alike to not be mistaken for a couple. She shivered at the idea.

“Agreed.” Quinn nodded with finality, but her reasoning was only ostensibly similar.

When Brittany came on back with a clipboard, she too did a double-take on the pair of girls. She met Santana’s eyes and, at the slightest shake of the jaw from Santana, Brittany moved away from Quinn and Rachel, and she instead sat with the bartender.

Quinn didn’t get what the big deal was. So she was talking to the midget. Who cared?

Her phone rang.

Rachel’s eyes flicked away from Brittany and down to Quinn’s phone.

Quinn met her stare briefly. She... didn’t want to leave.

Sometimes, with the right stranger or vague acquaintance, the most innocent of small talks would make her stomach warm like bubbling honey, and the sharp edges of her eyes seemed to soften amiably.

Talking to Rachel about other people had an effect much like that.

The phone continued ringing.

Quinn quietly excused herself out of the conference room.

“Hello?” she murmured uncertainly, hugging her arm around her abdomen.

“Quinn! Finally! It’s about time you pick up the phone.”

She felt her knees start to shake.

“Quinn? Hello?”

She could feel it in her knuckles.

“Are you still there?”

Christ, her fingernails were vibrating.

“This is Quinn, right?”

“Jen,” the blonde breathed, tugging the collar of her polo around her neck.

She heard a content sigh on the other line. “Hey.”

Quinn kicked at the pavement, struggling to swallow. “Um, what’s up?” she croaked.

Jen laughed, and Quinn’s stomach clenched. “Not much, not much. How’ve you been?”

Quinn looked at her watch. The meeting started in two minutes. “What do you want, Jen?” Her voice was thicker than fog and harder than diamonds and darker than pavement, but as cracked as glass.

The tick in the redhead’s tone was impossible to ignore. “A hello would be nice. Maybe, ‘ _great, Jen! How’re you?_ ’”

Quinn leaned against the wall and drummed her fingertips against the brick. She said nothing.

Jen sighed. Quinn chewed on her lip.

The silence built and built, towering over them both from opposite ends of the country. Moments escaped them both. Finally, Quinn mumbled “Jen, unless there’s a punchline, I really have to go, I-”

“Come to LA.”

Quinn fisted her own shirt. “What?”

“Do you have a spring break?”

Quinn’s chest hurt. “Maybe.”

She heard Jen lick her lips. Quinn clenched her eyes shut. “If you have the time,” Jen articulated purposefully, “You should come visit me. I’m living off-campus with a few girls, but they’re gonna be out of town the third week of March. So… you should come.”

Quinn felt like crumbling. “I don’t know.”

“If it’s about the money, it’s on me. Consider it a favor.” Quinn scoffed, but Jen continued. “I’ve got the plane tickets, the food, the entertainment. All you have to do is say yes.”

“No, Jen.”

“Don't decide now. Just think about it, babe. I’ll call you in a few days— and answer the damn phone this time, ‘kay?”

The line went dead.

Quinn hissed out a sharp breath and jammed the heels of her palms into her sockets. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Quinn Fabray didn’t cry anymore except for pathetic moments that she forced herself to forget with bitter drinks.

Pocketing the phone, Quinn re-entered the break room where Brittany was already greeting the staff.

Santana’s look was one of curiosity, of questioning. Their two lives were so intertwined that there was little to nothing Santana didn’t know about Quinn.

She knew she’d ask about the call. But Quinn could barely bring herself to comprehend it, much less talk about it.

Rubbing her palms on her thighs, Quinn sat down with Rachel — beside her, this time.

 

 


End file.
